Flickers
by Flaignhan
Summary: There are some deductions he cannot make however, because he doesn't, and probably never will understand the human heart, beyond its ventricles and atria, and the continual thud thud, thud thud, that carries on from birth until death.


**A/N: **This took a lot longer than anticipated. I think I'm going to sleep for about twenty years now. Also, it's set prior to season one.

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><p><strong>Flickers<strong>

**by Flaignhan**

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><p>The card from Beamish is tragically expected. The moment she sees the pale pink envelope in her pigeonhole, her heart leaps in her chest, but as soon as she notices the thin, untidy handwriting on the front of it she lets out a sigh and rifles through the rest of her mail. She shouldn't have expected anything to be different this year, not really. And yet there had been that tiny hint of hope, the sparkle in her heart that was holding out for something, for anything. A text would do, some kind of acknowledgement of her existence, a sign that she has crossed his mind today. But of course such things are beneath him, have always been beneath him. She'd be surprised if he even knew what day it was if she's honest. He's only observant when it comes to things that matter to him, and this day is, most likely, high on the list of things that don't deserve his attention.<p>

Molly retreats to her office, dumping her bag on the desk and collapsing in her chair, the wheels shooting her back a few inches when she makes contact. She reaches out, hands gripping the worn edges of her desk and pulls herself closer, feet hovering a few inches from the ground as she scoots along. She opens Beamish's card boredly, raising one eyebrow at the cartoon which depicts a sad little man being diagnosed by his doctor with the tragic, incurable condition of love. Honestly, she would prefer to not date somebody who considers love to be a disease, but at the rate her love life is going, next year she might be forced to give Beamish some serious consideration.

That thought flies out of her mind when she reads the message inside, gagging as the words burn into her brain, never to be erased.

_Stop by Radiology at lunch and I'll give you a full medical._

She throws the card across the room, then digs the heels of her palms into her eye sockets, trying to clear her mind of such a disgusting thought. She suppresses a shudder, then, taking a deep breath and opening her eyes, decides that the best way to deal with her nausea is to go and get ready for her first autopsy of the day.

She's only just made the incision when the door bangs open and Sherlock strides in, his hair damp and tousled from the drizzle outside, the collar of his navy blue coat turned up against the cold. She smiles to herself as he unfastens the belt, his long fingers working expertly at the buckle, then frees all of the buttons before heading into the adjoining room and dumping it with Molly's things. When he returns, he's also relieved himself of his jacket, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing pale forearms dotted with nicotine patches. He plucks a couple of latex gloves from the dispenser on the wall before he comes over to the slab, peering down curiously at Mrs Cope.

"Any inklings?" he asks quietly, his voice breaking the stillness of the morgue.

"Internal bleeding," Molly says, glancing across Mrs Cope's face, her gaze lingering on the faded black eye and the crusted blood set between the split lip.

"Husband?"

Molly frowns, then stretches awkwardly over towards the trolley to look at the notes, her hands still wedged between Mrs Cope's lungs. The notes don't give her any details to suggest that the husband is responsible.

"No indication," she says.

"If you had to make a guess?" Sherlock presses.

"I'd say probably not," Molly says slowly, pulling a face at a particularly tar damaged portion of lung. "Domestic attacks don't really look like this...they're more...vicious."

"She's dead Molly, you can't be much more vicious."

"_No_," she says, her impatience showing in her voice. She doesn't need to look at him to know he has raised an eyebrow. "This looks more like a panicked attack. It's clumsy, domestic attacks are a lot more..." She trails off again, unable to explain what she has seen so many times on her slab. She can't tell Sherlock that she gets a nasty chill winding its way up her spine, he would scoff, ask her why until he was blue in the face. He deals with evidence, gut feelings are, most likely, not his thing.

"Go on," he says, and there is almost a hint of encouragement in his tone. She looks up at him, her eyebrows twitching into a frown, only to see him awaiting her answer. Molly returns her attention to Mrs Cope, her front teeth digging into her lower lip as she considers her words.

"You can see when there's passion behind an attack," she says at last. "The domestic violence cases are always...they're horrible. This is horrible too," she adds quickly, not wanting to make it sound like Mrs Cope had a walk in the park. "But there isn't the intention of really hurting her. Whatever happened, her dying wasn't the goal, something else was."

"Excellent stuff. You're getting quite good at this." Sherlock says, and when Molly glances up at him, his lips are curved into the smallest of smiles. She looks back down, and tries to ignore the swelling of her heart as she extracts Mrs Cope's. A metal dish is brandished towards her and she dumps the heart into it and Sherlock's heels click on the floor as he crosses to the scales. Moments later she hears the scratching of a biro on the paperwork and the squeak of the trolley wheels as his pressure shifts them, and she glances over her shoulder to see him filling in a figure.

"How much?" she asks.

"Two hundred and eighteen point four," he replies, the top of the pen pressed against his lips as he frowns down at the paperwork.

"Everything all - ?"

The doors to the morgue open and Molly's heart freezes. Sherlock isn't even wearing an apron, let alone a lab coat, and the last thing she wants today is a bollocking about mortuary regulations. Unfortunately, there is something she wants even less than that, and when she removes her hands from Mrs Cope and turns around, she discovers that he is leaning against the open door, his curly hair flattened with thick gloopy hair gel. Molly tries to concentrate on anything other than the large pimple on Beamish's chin, but it is so close to breaking point that she's worried it might explode any second.

"Hi Molly," he says, grinning slyly. He glances towards Sherlock, who is still immersed in the contents of Mrs Cope's file, then looks back to Molly.

"Hi," Molly says flatly, then turns back to Mrs Cope, unwilling to leave her there with a gaping chest while Beamish lingers. She should have some dignity in death, and she's already lost a great deal of that by being the only naked body that Beamish will be seeing this Valentine's Day.

The squeak of rubber soled shoes causes Molly's shoulders to sag, and before she knows it, Beamish is grinning at her from the opposite side of the slab.

"Do you mind?" Molly says, shooting him a reproachful look. "I don't think her family would be too thrilled that you're here."

"I'm a doctor," he says, puffing out his chest and pushing his shoulders back. "I have every right to be here. If anyone asks, you requested a consultation."

From behind her, Molly hears a short breath of laughter.

"I don't need a consultation from you," Molly says pointedly, ignoring Sherlock's reaction and ploughing on, determined to deal with Beamish herself. She always finds that Sherlock knocks the wind right out of her sails, that his powerful presence somehow feeds off of her own, reducing her on the spot. Not now, however. She will not tolerate Beamish being in her morgue, in _her_ safe space. This is the one place she can be certain of a little peace and quiet, and although she gets visitors a few times a day, they are _never_ social calls, and nor are they disgusting requests for a 'medical screening'.

"Did you get my ca - ?"

"You're breaking at least fifty regulations at the moment," she tells him. "You need to leave before you contaminate this area."

"She's dead," Beamish says, "It's not going to do her any damage."

"She's been _murdered_," Molly breathes, unwilling to believe that a fellow doctor could stoop so low. "And if you contaminate any of this, her killer might never be brought to justice."

Beamish juts out his jaw, the pimple on his chin even more prominent with his sulky expression. He cannot argue with her on that count, and he must know it. She thinks that might actually be the end of it, but to her dismay, he opens his mouth again.

"But did you get my ca - ?"

There is a loud _thwack_ behind her as Sherlock slams Mrs Cope's notes back onto the trolley. Molly flinches at the sudden noise, and her stomach twists itself into knots at all the potential train wreck scenarios running through her head. Sherlock can't afford to make himself a target for Beamish - he's hardly following the rulebook _either_. The best she can hope for is that Sherlock is clever enough to claim to be another doctor, or that Beamish is stupid enough to not know that Sherlock is breaching code.

"She's not interested," Sherlock says sharply. "Stop following after her like some sort of pathetic little puppy. It's not endearing, in fact most women find it to be quite intolerable."

"But - "

"If you come in here again, then I'll have no choice to report you to your head of department. Your flagrant disregard for the preservation of evidence in a _murder_ investigation is _very_ concerning."

"But I just wanted to - "

"But Doctor Hooper does _not_," Sherlock says pointedly. Molly can't help but crack a smile at his use of her full title, reminding Beamish of her authority. He could even go one step further and remind him that she's of a higher rank than he is, but it _is_ Valentine's Day after all, and there's only so much salt one can rub in the wound before it becomes cruel.

"But I - "

"At any rate," Sherlock says briskly, sidestepping the trolley and coming to stand at Molly's side. He has a fresh dish in hand, right on cue as she lifts the stomach out of Mrs Cope's abdomen. "She's having dinner with me tonight."

Molly drops the stomach into the dish, where it lands with a disgusting _splat_. She recovers quickly, but Beamish is staring open mouthed at Sherlock, a mixture of awe and disappointment spread across his face.

"She's what?" Beamish asks, plainly hoping he's misheard.

"She's spending the evening with me," Sherlock replies briskly, crossing over to the scales in order to weigh the stomach. He barely glances at the number before he returns to the paperwork and picks up the biro again, jotting down the figure. When he's done, he looks up, feigning surprise that Beamish is still standing there. "If you could close your mouth and get out that would be excellent."

Beamish doesn't need telling twice, and he hurries towards the door, his face flushed with embarrassment. He's not concentrating on what he's doing, and his shoulder collides with the open door, causing him to hunch his shoulders, creasing his face in pain. He doesn't linger any longer however, and soon the squeak of his shoes is disappearing into the distance.

"Thanks," Molly says, feeling an unwelcome heat rise in her cheeks.

"For what?" Sherlock asks, flipping through the pages of Mrs Cope's notes once more.

"For getting rid of him," Molly says with a shrug. "For telling him that you're taking me out."

"I am…" he says distractedly. Molly whips around, but she can't decide whether he's being serious or not. He's far too focused on the paperwork, his eyebrows drawn together in a concentrated frown, his eyes scanning rapidly across the pages.

"What d'you mean you - ?"

"I've got to go," he says briskly, apparently finished with the notes because he dumps them back on the trolley. "But dinner, tonight. Half seven, I'll text you."

Before she can process such an idea, he has whipped off his latex gloves, pinged them into the bin, and fetched his jacket and coat from the next room. He departs without so much as a backwards glance, leaving Molly with her hands wedged in a half empty cadaver, completely lost for words.

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><p>She chooses a black dress. It's simple, no nonsense, exactly like him. It has a pleated skirt and a trail of tiny beads stitched around the neckline, but beyond that, it is very simple indeed. She still doesn't trust him, is half expecting for him to not turn up, or else text her at the last minute declaring that he's had a change of heart.<p>

She secures her earrings (faux pearls, nothing fancy) then brushes down her dress, ensuring that there's not even the faintest hint of cat hair stuck to her. The buzzer sounds and her heart stops dead in her chest. It's seven thirty on the dot, he's right on time. Taking a deep breath, she tucks her hair behind her ear with a shaky hand and then leaves the bedroom, crossing the lounge to the intercom. She presses the button and leans close, telling him she'll be down in a minute, then slowly pulls on her coat, careful not to mess up her dress in any way, shape, or form. She feels sick with nerves, but swallows it all down as she places the strap of her handbag on her shoulder and glances across to the mirror one last time before she leaves the flat.

The cab ride is silent, and Sherlock seems to be in own world, entirely unconcerned with anything around him. He's staring at the back of the driver's head, but his eyes aren't taking in any detail, she can tell. She can always tell. Her hopes (no matter how stupidly optimistic) of a romantic evening are trickling away by the second, and they haven't even made it to the restaurant yet. She had told herself not to hope when he'd left the morgue, knowing him only too well, but when the text had arrived, she had told herself that it had a slim to none chance of actually going ahead, but then when the buzzer had sounded…_then_ her brain had allowed her heart to hope.

As far as she can see in the darkness of the cab, he's wearing the same clothes he was earlier. She supposes it doesn't really matter if he had changed his shirt or not, but if he had, that would have given her some indication of how he feels about this evening, how much it matters to him. He may well have been busy all day, may have come straight from Scotland Yard without a moment to spare. She doesn't care though, he's here, and that's the main thing. He has already surpassed her expectations.

The cab pulls up outside a quiet little restaurant, dimly lit, with only a few couples dining inside. When they reach the door, Sherlock pulls it open and steps aside for Molly to enter first. He gestures towards the table by the window and Molly makes her way towards it, unbuttoning her coat and slipping it off of her shoulders. Sherlock takes it from her and hangs it up with his own, and Molly takes a seat, goosebumps erupting over her skin as the reality of the situation hits her. What on earth is she going to talk about with him? They've usually got lab results or a cadaver between them, but now they've got a small table, a candle with a tiny, flickering flame, and highly polished cutlery.

Within moments of them sitting down, a large man in a white shirt comes over, bottle of wine in hand, a broad smile on his face.

"Sherlock…" he says in a gravelly voice, clapping him on the back before he nods politely towards Molly. He pours her a glass of wine, and then one for Sherlock, who is staring out of the window, his eyes slightly narrowed.

"Seen anything unusual?" Sherlock asks, eventually tearing his eyes away from the street outside and looking up to Angelo.

"Not a thing," Angelo says gruffly, handing a menu to Molly, and then one to Sherlock, who puts it down on the table without looking at it and returns his gaze to the outside world. Angelo frowns, standing up straighter, and places his hands on his hips. "If you're going to be like this all night then I hope you at least got her a nice bunch of flowers."

"Why would I get her flowers?" Sherlock asks vaguely, then, as though his mind has snapped back into place, he turns his head sharply to look at Molly, a shrewd expression on his face. "It's not your birthday is it?"

Molly opens her mouth to respond, but before she can say a word Sherlock is shaking his head.

"No of course it's not, we're only in February." He frowns, as though displeased with himself for coming up with an incorrect possibility, then looks out of the window again. Molly stares down at the menu, her skin prickling with embarrassment. He's not here because he wants to spend time with her, nor is he here because wants to get to know her better. All he wants is for someone to sit here and make him look normal while he stares across the bloody street at an empty house, waiting for goodness knows what to happen.

She bites down hard on her lower lip to keep it from trembling. She's furious with him, tears prickling in the corners of her eyes, mocking her for her naivety and optimism. She had been a fool to believe that this was anything other than a necessary task for him, that she was anything more than a pawn in his stupid game. She has a good mind to walk out, to leave him to stare out of the window alone for the rest of the evening. That way, anyone passing by would think he'd been stood up, but the embarrassment of that probably wouldn't even come close to penetrating him, so oblivious is he to everything that's actually human.

"Sherlock," Angelo says, his eyebrows drawn into a disbelieving frown. "It's _Valentine's_ Day."

"Oh for heaven's _sake_," Sherlock says impatiently, twisting his head to throw a dirty look at Angelo, then turning back again. "All that fuss; I thought it was something important."

Angelo stares at the back of Sherlock's head for a moment, then blinks, shakes his head, and turns his attention to Molly. "What would you like to eat, sweetheart?"

Molly doesn't feel hungry at all. There's a horrible, bubbling feeling in her stomach, but she glances down at the menu to be polite, then chooses something she considers to be relatively safe.

"Can I have the caesar salad?" she says, not quite managing to keep the tremor from her voice.

"Of course you can," Angelo says, touching her shoulder gently before he takes her menu from her. He picks Sherlock's up from the table, hits him over the back of the head with it, earning himself a disgruntled huff, then disappears into the kitchens. Molly picks up her wine glass and swallows a mouthful. It leaves a nasty, acidic taste in her mouth but she knows that has nothing to do with the quality of the wine, and much more to do with the quality of her evening.

"What are you even looking for?" Molly asks quietly. Sherlock glances across at her, but she doesn't hold his attention for long, because soon he is looking straight past her again.

"Someone," he replies.

"Who?"

"I don't know. That's the _point_."

She has a good mind to walk out the door, to leave Sherlock to explain to Angelo why the caesar salad won't be getting eaten. For some reason however, she is stuck to her chair. She will not move, will not even shift into a more comfortable position. It's not like she has to make a good impression after all, she could slouch, she could put her elbows on the table, she could down her wine in a few big glugs, but she won't. She's not often stubborn, but tonight, she won't be bailing early. She has her own pride to think about, and if she ditches this charade, he'll think she's far too fragile. It's about time he learned that she's the opposite of that.

She sits in silence, until eventually Angelo brings out a beautifully prepared caesar salad and sets it down in front of Molly, then places a home made pizza with a perfectly thin and crispy base in front of Sherlock. Molly thanks Angelo, and Sherlock doesn't bat an eyelid, so she picks up her cutlery and begins eating without him.

He barely blinks as he stares ahead, and Molly chews her food thoroughly before swallowing each mouthful, her gaze fixed on him. She can't remember ever being so furious with him, but nor has she ever been so stupid. Her stomach churns, and the salad doesn't help to settle that, but she knows she has to eat something. It wouldn't be fair on Angelo to have two people sitting in his restaurant window completely ignoring their food. It's hardly a great advert.

Without warning, Sherlock stands abruptly, knocking the table and causing the wine glasses to wobble ominously.

"Stay here," he says, taking his coat off of the stand and pulling it on swiftly. Before Molly can say a word, he has left the restaurant, striding briskly past the window, his coat collar pulled up, showing off the maroon accent on the underside of the revere. Molly follows him with her eyes until he crosses the street and enters a house, the door closing softly behind him.

"Don't take it personally."

Molly looks up to see Angelo, standing next to the table, a tea towel clasped in his large hands. He sits down in Sherlock's vacated seat and places the towel in his lap, then rests his arms on the edge of the table.

"It's just how he is," he continues. He skews his lips to one side then adds, "If it's any consolation, he normally comes here alone."

It's not much consolation. Whatever reason he had for asking her to join him tonight, it was nothing to do with Valentine's Day. She begrudges having wasted her time ironing her dress, doing her make up, her hair, painting her nails, all of it. She had put so much effort in to looking casually perfect and he was never going to be interested at all.

"How do you know him then?" Molly asks, desperately seeking a change in subject. The more she focuses on her disappointment, the worse that feeling in her stomach becomes, and even though it's the safe option, she's not entirely sure she can guarantee the caesar salad won't make an unexpected comeback.

"He got me off a nasty murder charge," Angelo says with a grin. She can't tell whether he's joking or not, and were she here with anyone other than Sherlock, she would be more drawn towards a yes. As it is, she knows Sherlock well enough to know that he rarely meets people in the pub or the supermarket or by any normal means.

"And…" Molly says uncertainly. "Were you innocent?"

"Yeah," Angelo says with a casual wave of his hand. "Yeah I was breaking into a car up the other end of the city. They did me for that, but if it had been the other I'd still be locked up now."

Molly raises her eyebrows and looks down at her food. At least Angelo _appears_ to be on the straight and narrow now, but that doesn't stop Molly from leaning against the hard wooden back of her chair, just to gain that extra bit of distance.

"He doesn't mean to upset you," Angelo continues. "It just…it's not that he doesn't care, it's just that he doesn't think, which is pretty funny when you think about it." He chuckles to himself but Molly doesn't indulge him with any of her own laughter.

"Yeah," she sighs. "It's hilarious."

"I mean because he's always thinking, that bonce of his never switches off."

Molly doesn't reply, but when she next looks up at Angelo, she sees him staring out the window, at the exact same spot Sherlock had been focused on. When she sees the flashes of blue highlighting his face, she whips around, to find a couple of police cars pulled up on the pavement, uniformed officers forcing someone into the back of one of the cars. She thinks for a second that it might be Sherlock, but then she sees him speaking to another officer, his mouth working at a hundred miles per hour, as usual. After thirty seconds or so, he starts weaving his way through the cars, heading back towards the restaurant, his left hand clasped around his right forearm. Molly narrows her eyes, and as soon as she sees the dark stain on the sleeve of his coat, she forgets all about her aching heart.

"Have you got a first aid kit?"

Angelo stands quickly and hurries to the kitchen, returning just as Sherlock barges open the door with his shoulder. He collapses in his seat, a scowl on his face, and Molly moves around the table to inspect him more closely. He lifts up his hand, revealing a deep gash in his forearm. Molly tugs at his coat and he leans forward, allowing her to remove it more easily. She tosses it onto her empty chair, then helps Sherlock, who is already trying to shrug off his jacket. Once he is rid of that too, she gets down on her knees and carefully unbuttons his shirt cuffs, rolling the the wrecked sleeve up above his wound.

On closer inspection it's not as serious as she first imagined. There's a fair amount of blood, a lot of fuss, but it's not a big deal. Her heart slows at this, and she peels off his nicotine patches and sets about cleaning the wound. He reaches over her to grab a piece of pizza, and she ignores him until a small piece of onion falls onto her hand. She looks up at him, not bothering to disguise how unimpressed she is. She's done enough acting tonight.

"I'm _hungry_," he says through a mouthful of pizza.

"Put it down," Molly says firmly, and after a pause, Sherlock dumps the pizza back on his plate.

"Have you got a needle and thread, Angelo?" Sherlock asks after he's swallowed the last remnants of pizza.

"Probably," Angelo replies, and he disappears again, leaving the two of them in silence.

"Was it worth it?" Molly says at last. "Was it worth this?" she gestures towards his arm and he looks down at it, then shrugs.

"Depends on whether you think catching Mrs Cope's killer is worth a minor wound."

Molly frowns. "Mrs Cope? As in autopsy Mrs Cope?"

"The very same," he murmurs, leaning back in his chair and casting his eyes up towards the patterned artex ceiling.

"How did you find him?" Molly asks, looking up briefly when Angelo returns and places a tin on the table. Molly opens it and inside she finds a few reels of cotton, a collection of shiny silver pins scattered over the bottom of the tin, and a small packet of needles in various sizes. As she unreels a length of cotton, she listens to Sherlock quietly explain that her own observations had ruled out the estranged husband who had been in custody, how the lack of banking activity suggested that Mrs Cope only ever took her pension in cash, how he had traced the culprit via the Post Office's CCTV, how he had vanished without a trace, that his own mother hadn't a clue where he was, how Sherlock had texted him, telling him he knew exactly what he'd done, how he had threatened to tell the police if he didn't meet him and share the cash, how the culprit, a young man, had turned up with fear in his eyes and a knife in his hand.

She holds the needle in the flame of the candle, switching ends after twenty seconds or so and grimacing when the hot metal burns her fingertips. While it's all very admirable that he's caught a killer, she still doesn't see why he needed to drag her out with him. There was never any need for her to be here, anybody could have stitched his arm up, and the only reason she's not sent him straight to hospital is because she knows how much he hates being a patient. She won't spoil another doctor's Valentine's Day. She'll bear this burden herself.

"I'm going to have to get a new coat," he says solemnly, looking across to the ragged, bloodstained sleeve of his pride and joy.

"Tragic," Molly says, pulling the thread through the eye of the needle, then, after a moment of consideration, she pushes the needle through the skin of Sherlock's arm. He hisses in pain, his hand balled into a fist as she sews the first stitch. She supposes she could be a little more delicate, but after this evening, she's not sorry. Not even one little bit.

She holds his wrist firmly as she stitches, keeping him secure whenever he flinches, and after a few minutes the wound is neatly pulled together once more, neat strips of black thread crossing over it at regular intervals. She's pleased with her work, and uses an antiseptic wipe to clean the rest of the blood from his arm. As soon as she stands, he immediately resumes eating his pizza, apparently ravenous now that the case is closed. Molly picks at her salad disinterestedly, cutting her chicken into smaller and smaller pieces until she is left with no choice other than to eat it. It's hard to chew, and she knows it's nothing to do with the food itself. Sherlock is making his way steadily through his pizza, not even sparing her a glance, and has apparently zero concern for the bloodstains on the table cloth.

It's a relief when he finishes, and Molly sets her knife and fork down. At last he looks across at her, his eyes flicking down to the remains of her salad, then back up to her face.

"Did you want des - ?"

"No thank you," she says primly, before he can even finish his offer. She sets her napkin on the table and smooths down the skirt of her dress, not wanting to look at him.

"Didn't you like it?" he asks.

"It was fine," she says simply. She reaches out for her wine glass and then raises it to her lips, looking out of the window and focusing her gaze on a passing bus as she drinks.

"Not hungry?" Sherlock asks, and she decides that she, unlike him, cannot keep staring in the opposite direction while being spoken to. His eyebrows are drawn together in a small frown, his eyes fixed on her, and she knows he is trying to deduce her, trying to work out why she is being quite so cold. There are some deductions he cannot make however, because he doesn't, and probably never will understand the human heart, beyond its ventricles and atria, and the continual _thud thud, thud thud_, that carries on from birth until death.

"No," she says, and she can see behind his eyes that his brain snaps back to the conversation. "Not hungry."

He nods once, slowly, then glances around briefly before saying: "Call it a night?"

"Yes, I think so," Molly says, getting to her feet. She passes him his jacket and coat, then goes to fetch her own, pulling it on and fumbling with the chunky buttons. She waits by the door until Sherlock has sorted himself out, and forces out a smile when Angelo comes to clear their plates away.

"Thank you, Angelo," Sherlock says as he gets up. "Until next time." He holds out his hand and Angelo shakes it, but just as Sherlock is about to release him, Angelo tightens his grip and pulls Sherlock a fraction closer.

"You see her safely home, d'you understand me?"

Despite his low tone, Molly can hear every word, and she inwardly curses him. She'd much rather be miserable on the tube than awkwardly silent in the back of a cab. Sherlock nods, then tugs his hand from Angelo's firm grasp and turns away. He pulls up his coat collar, still apparently determined to look like he's striding down a catwalk even with the additional knife and blood work on his sleeve.

Molly pushes the door to the restaurant open and steps out into the chilly night air, her breath fogging the second she lets out a shaky exhalation. Sherlock steps out after her and immediately heads off in the direction of her flat. She follows, her stomach dropping at the prospect of walking the whole way with him, preferring to keep the journey as short as possible so she can go home, drink tea, watch the telly and cuddle Toby. At least she knows that _he'll_ never let her down on Valentine's Day.

She falls into step beside Sherlock, her legs moving quickly in order to keep up with his long strides. He has his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, and thankfully, is apparently feeling as uncommunicative as she is, which is one of the small blessings of the evening. The only trouble with the silence is that she has to turn to her thoughts for company, which only serve as a reminder as to how stupid she was for ever expecting that tonight would end in anything other than that horrible, and unfortunately familiar, icky feeling of being simultaneously used and ignored.

They walk for a good twenty minutes with only the noise of the traffic to keep them company, but when they reach a mini supermarket, still busy even at such a late hour, Sherlock mutters something about cigarettes and ducks inside before Molly can remind him that he's got nicotine patches for a reason.

She waits outside, thankful for the respite. She watches the traffic pass, couples nearly sitting on top of one another in the backs of taxis, tired commuters heading home from a late shift with their heads resting against the grimy bus windows, flicking absentmindedly through novels or picking at portions of chips wrapped up in paper. She's very nearly envious of them. At least they haven't had their hopes raised and dashed in the course of an evening. At least they haven't been bled on, or had pizza toppings dropped on them.

She hears a rustle behind her, and turns around to see a rather sorry looking bouquet of roses. She frowns at them, then looks up at Sherlock, any flickers of hope in her heart immediately stamped out by her stubborn brain.

"It's all they had left," he says, looking down at the flowers and wrinkling his nose.

"I don't think you can smoke those."

The corner of his mouth turns upwards. "That rubbish about the cigarettes was a terrible lie and you know it."

Molly shrugs. She hadn't given much thought at all to his words, had been so engrossed in her own melancholy that she hadn't spared him an inch of her brain space. He holds the flowers out to her, but Molly doesn't take them.

"Why did you drag me out tonight?" she asks, folding her arms across her chest and trying her hardest to keep her voice steady.

"It was your case as much as mine," Sherlock tells her with a shrug. "You spotted that it wasn't the husband straight away. All your good work."

Molly chews on the inside of her lower lip for a moment, then asks: "And why the flowers?"

Sherlock shrugs again, a frown forming as he looks up at the sky, apparently seeking an answer from amongst the light pollution and the flashing lights of passenger jets. "Angelo said something about flowers," he says at last, looking across at her. He moves forward, holding the bouquet out to her, and reluctantly Molly takes it from him.

"Thank you," she says quietly.

He nods, then offers her his good arm, which she takes after only a microsecond of hesitation. He walks more slowly now, and she can see her tower block in the distance. A few of the roses in her bouquet are slightly squashed and crumpled, undoubtedly caused by the carelessness of frantic hands belonging to disorganised and forgetful owners, as they seek out as decent a bouquet as they can at the eleventh hour. Regardless, she holds the roses close to her chest, and lowers her face to the soft petals, which gently tickle her cheeks. She inhales their sweet scent and smiles, despite the train wreck of an evening.

This is her tragedy, and she knows it better than anybody else, because no matter how many times she decides that he has finally overstepped the mark, no matter how many times he disregards her feelings or opinions, or how many times he uses her or takes advantage of her position at Bart's, there will be one time when he reignites that forlorn hope in her heart, oblivious to the consequences. She rests the side of her head tiredly against his upper arm, and is surprised when he doesn't even flinch, let alone pull away. As they walk, she grows used to it, to him, to being close without the presence of a cadaver, and she realises, with a cold jolt in her heart, that she is completely and utterly doomed.

* * *

><p><strong>The End<strong>


End file.
